s of pines laid upon some unsecured logs, crossed the river.
The broncos stopped and smelt it, not liking it, but some encouraging
speech induced them to go over. On the other side was a log cabin,
partially ruinous, and the very rudest I ever saw, its roof of
plastered mud being broken into large holes. It stood close to the
water among some cotton-wood trees. A little higher there was a very
primitive saw-mill, also out of repair, with some logs lying about. An
emigrant wagon and a forlorn tent, with a camp-fire and a pot, were in
the foreground, but there was no trace of the boarding-house, of which
I stood a little in dread. The driver went for further directions to
the log cabin, and returned with a grim smile deepening the melancholy
of his face to say it was Mr. Chalmers', but there was no accommodation
for such as him, much less for me! This was truly "a sell." I got
down and found a single room of the rudest kind, with the wall at one
end partially broken down, holes in the roof, holes for windows, and no
furniture but two chairs and two unplaned wooden shelves, with some
sacks of straw upon them for beds. There was an adjacent cabin room,
with a stove, benches, and table, where they cooked and ate, but this
was all. A hard, sad-looking woman looked at me measuringly. She said
that they sold milk and butter to parties who camped in the canyon,
that they had never had any boarders but two asthmatic old ladies, but
they would take me for five dollars per week if I "would make myself
agreeable." The horses had to be fed, and I sat down on a box, had
some dried beef and milk, and considered the matter. If I went back to
Fort Collins, I thought I was farther from a mountain life, and had no
choice but Denver, a place from which I shrank, or to take the cars for
New York. Here the life was rough, rougher than any I had ever seen,
and the people repelled me by their faces and manners; but if I could
rough it for a few days, I might, I thought, get over canyons and all
other difficulties into Estes Park, which has become the goal of my
journey and hopes. So I decided to remain.

September 16.

Five days here, and I am no nearer Estes Park. How the days pass I
know not; I am weary of the limitations of this existence. This is "a
life in which nothing happens." When the buggy disappeared, I felt as
if I had cut the bridge behind me. I sat down and knitted for some
time--my usual resource under discoura